


Headcanons

by LadyLaguna



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLaguna/pseuds/LadyLaguna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various drabbles establishing headcanon for my Locke Cole RP blog. They range in timeframe from his childhood to the WoR (in an alternate universe), and currently range in rating from General Audiences to Mature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as headcanon for my [Locke Cole RP Blog](http://thepricewasright.tumblr.com). Exploration of Locke's relationship with the man who keeps Rachel in his basement. If you would like to know my theory about that whole situation, click [here](http://thepricewasright.tumblr.com/post/55573209939/let-me-be-a-gigantic-shithead-for-a-moment) to be taken to my blog post about it. There's some really interesting discussion in the notes as well.

Locke didn’t even bother to knock anymore, he just waltzed right in.

“The spectre Locke has come to haunt. Yes he has… The spectre has come to haunt my home again…”

The old man, hunched over his work table, swept some plant bits into a bowl. Locke jumped up onto it, inhabiting the newly cleaned area. “What’s going on, Old Man?”

“Mmm… hard to find good plants these days, yes it is… Everything’s dying or dead and will not grow. Have to change my formulas, I do.” He continued to focus on his work, not otherwise acknowledging Locke.

Used to this treatment, Locke simply crossed his legs and leaned forward. “That’s no good. I was hoping you had something that could help me out. I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

For Locke to openly admit such a thing was monumental, and it finally got the old man’s attention. Head tipping upward, he settled one wild eye in Locke’s direction. “End of the world’ll do that to you. Ruin your beauty sleep, oh yes…” After a moment of consideration, he abandoned his current project and began to rummage through his cabinets. The room filled with the sound of glass tinkling as he pushed bottles around, humming to himself. “Locke Lockey Dockey Tick Tockey Watch the clock Locke~”

Locke was used to all of this as well; his name had a sort of lyrical quality to the old man, and he was one of the few people that the herbalist would call by name.

“You know, spectral being, that even herbs cannot cure all ills. A restless mind keeps sleep away, yes it does.”

Laughing, Locke leaned back on his hands. “You wanna listen to all my cares, Old Man?”

“Tick tock, talk to me, Locke.”

It didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things; all that Locke said would be squirreled away in that cluttered brain of his, only to re-emerge at the most inopportune moments. The old man’s mind, like a rusted gate, only occasionally opened wide; but when it did, it did so forcefully, spilling out all its deepest secrets.

“I don’t sleep because I know that when I wake up, nothing will have changed. Believing in the future, taking my own destiny into my hands, carving a new path for myself… All the work I did, it doesn’t mean shit. I’m just as much a nobody as when I started, and everything’s the same…”

The old man didn’t answer, continuing to mix his precious herbs. Locke sighed deeply and shook his head.

“So yeah. Whatever. I have a restless mind.” He picked at a stray thread on his vest. “And you know what the worst thing is?”

“You seen the good life and you could’ve lived it. If you had played by the rules, yes you could.”

Blinking, Locke let one leg drape over the edge of the table. “How did you know what I was gonna say?”

“Mm?” the old man turned to him, pestle grinding as their eyes met. “You’re just like me, Little Lockey, yes you are. Ignored and mocked by the world… Stepped on and kicked and knocked down for a laugh. When you tell them that herbs can cure arthritis, they laugh at you! But when someone ELSE says war brings out the best in man, that man can earn money from conflict? They line up, one after one after one after two.”

Jumping down, Locke folded his arms. “Okay, you’ve got a point. So what the fuck do I do about it?”

“You GO CRAZY. Or you do something GREAT.”

Locke feared he was destined for the former. Especially if he didn’t get some quality sleep sometime soon… “So… which one are you?”

The old man poured his concoction into a satchet and tied it up with a piece of twine. Placing it in Locke’s hand, he said, “Boil a cup of water and put two pinches of this in. Breathe the steam in deep. You will sleep a long, long time, you will. The sleep of the dead, hahaHA!”

As Rachel slept away in the basement. “You ruined my life, you know.”

“Mm, did I? I did. I did, did I?” He went back to his abandoned project.

“You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father figure, you crazy old bastard.”

“And you, for me, a son figure. Wowie zowie. Now that is depressing. A depressing thought, indeed. Now neither of us will get any sleep at all.”


	2. The Road to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one of Locke's comrades in the Returners loses her brother, he comforts her despite not returning her feelings for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-graphic depictions of violence at wartime. Read with caution.

Whenever Locke stepped out of line, he would give his grandmother the puppy dog eyes and say, “I didn’t mean to!” in hopes of getting off.

She’d simply reply, “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,” and send him outside to cut a Whippin’ Switch off of the bush by the lane.

For a short time after the royal family fell, boats still traveled to and from the southern continent. Likely because keeping the ports open allowed spies to flow more easily into Figaro. The Returners, by exchange, continued to act down south. Their foothold there was tenuous, and Locke was sent along with a small team to offer assistance.

The squad of Returners based down there answered to a young man and woman by the names of Johnathan and Rebekah. For three months after Locke’s arrival, they worked hard to sabotage the Empire’s efforts and keep the soldiers from taking more towns. Their efforts were stalled when they ran afoul of an Imperial unit just a few hours north of Maranda. A soldier decapitated Johnathan right before his sister’s eyes; she and Locke barely escaped with their lives, hunkering down in the Returners’ hideout in the mountains nearer Albrook.

None of the Returners could console Rebekah. They nominated Locke as the best candidate to assist her; the two of them got along well. Locke sat with her through the evening until the time for their planning meeting arrived. When he rose to leave, Rebekah grabbed his shirt and sobbed.

“Please don’t leave me!” she cried, burying her face in his chest.

Rubbing her shoulders by way of comfort, Locke said, “Have to. You know I’m important to this plan we’re putting in action tomorrow.” His heart ached. He thought of Rachel, and how easily he had left her…

“You’re going to die, Locke! You’ll die and I’ll be all alone. Don’t go! I love you! I love you…”

Locke suspected she felt this way. He didn’t return the sentiment, but he was loathe to break her heart. So he promised to stay with her until the end of the night. She offered her body and he accepted, despite the fact that every fiber of his body told him not to. When it was done, she slept soundly, and he thought perhaps it had been the right course of action.

The next morning, he had no choice but to leave her. She awoke as he was putting on the last bits of his equipment. Again she sobbed and clung to him.

Gently trying to extricate her fingers from his shirt, Locke breathed, “Rachel, I have to go.” He realized his mistake before the last word died on his lips.

“How… could you?” she cried, shoving him backward out the door.

Locke didn’t hear from Rebekah after that. Five months passed; most of his continued efforts centered around Tzen. Occasionally, he would inquire of other Returners about her well-being. They would simply say that she was no longer on active duty.

The Returners’ attempts to reclaim the southern continent ultimately failed. The word came early one morning that the Empire was shutting down the port in Albrook, and had begun sussing out Returners and their sympathizers. In Maranda, five men had already been dragged out into the streets and shot.

Locke and most of the people he’d been working with met just outside Albrook. They’d paid a ship’s captain handsomely to get them out before the troopers arrived. Locke looked through the crowd, counting heads.

“Where’s Rebekah? And Samuel, and Craig—“ Everyone from the Albrook hideout was absent. Were they really going to try and hold their ground, despite everything?

“Locke, there’s no time.” His compatriot, Vincent, was a sensible man… But he could also be heartless in the face of danger.

“Fuck you, there’s no time.” Locke threw a hundred gil at the captain, snatching up his chocobo. “Give me half an hour. I’m heading to the mountains.”

“Locke!!”

He ignored the Returners’ cries and took off at breakneck speed. No matter what Rebekah and her men thought they could accomplish there, they were better off up north where they could move freely. He’d drag them all out by the noses if he had to.

When he arrived, however, he realized what his companions were trying to tell him…

Craig lay dead just outside the entrance; it looked as if he didn’t even have time to draw his sword before they killed him. Cursing, Locke dismounted and dashed inside. He heard his name echoing against the bluffs and ignored it.

It was a massacre. Every room he searched was ransacked and body parts were strewn throughout. But where was Rebekah? Room after room after room after room—Locke grew increasingly panicked—

—until he finally found her, lying in the bed where they had made love five months prior. Her eyes were open but unseeing, the sheets and her white dress soaked in dried blood. Her hands still clutched her pregnant belly protectively.

Locke threw up. Vincent found him and dragged him out.

Just another brick in the road.


	3. Tragic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Throughout Locke's life, he's heard one word more often than any others.

He was five and playing on the curb while the neighbors spoke nearby.

“His mother wasn’t married. She didn’t want him at all. So tragic.”

He was eight. The doctor emerged from his grandmother’s bedroom and patted him on the head.

“She’s completely blind now, Locke. You’re the man of the house so you have to care for her.”

“Tragic,” the nurse breathed as they left.

He was ten and the doctor came to call again.

“I hate to bear such tragic news… But your grandmother is dying.”

By the age of twelve, he was on the streets. He got caught digging into the pockets of the Milliner’s coat.

“He’ll never amount to anything,” the magistrate said at his hearing. “It’s such a tragedy, but what you can you do?”

The town responded by refusing him even a handout.

At thirteen he met Rachel. She hid hunks of bread and dried fish in her sleeve and passed them to him every morning on her way to school. When she came home, she told him about her lessons.

Age fifteen: she was dead.

He wandered into the mountains and stared up at the sky with a dagger pressed against his jugular.

He felt the throb of his pulse pass through the blade to the hilt to his shaking fingers and back. Circling, circling, circling. The tears finally came.

“So tragic!”

He couldn’t do it. Not with Rachel still waiting for him. He pulled the blade away.

“Such a fucking tragedy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that Locke's father is mentioned in his FF wiki entry, but since he never mentions the man in-game to my knowledge, he's been omitted.


	4. Letting it Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the best way to shut your brain off is to smoke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the WoR in an alternate timeline where Locke hasn't made it to the Phoenix Cave, and is cooling his heels at Figaro Castle.

Locke sat tucked into a crenel in one of the castle’s rear battlements. This high up, usually only guards bothered to visit the area. It was late in the evening and the castle’s inhabitants were readying for bed. Locke watched them with only mild interest, feeling all the new faces and old blur together with passing time.

Staying still for too long had never been good for him. He preferred to move fast enough to keep his mind from catching up. If he thought too much, he inevitably thought of Rachel. Of the last time he saw her alive. Of the sound of her voice.

As time passed—over a decade, now—he found it harder and harder to remember the sound. Conversations became sentences, sentences became phrases. He feared the day when phrases became words that spiraled into nothingness.

What the hell was he doing? He had given up on his quest so easily this time. He knew the truth, when he allowed himself to think about it: He didn’t want to bring her back into this broken world. He didn’t want her to wake up into despair. Despair, even alongside him, would still be despair. And he had lived a completely different life without her. He was two lives removed, now.

Just as everyone here had become removed from him. Alone in a sea of people, he had lost all sense of purpose. He was a ship without a rudder. Without sails, even.

Sighing heavily, he reached into a small compartment on his belt. The one thing this shitty world still had plenty of was weeds, and the old herbalist in Kohlingen had shown him the best ones to set on fire. He still used them sparingly, as rolling papers that didn’t taste awful were harder to come by. A generous pinch, a quick roll (he’d been doing this since his teens), and a small fire spell (at least it had some use) and he was in business.

Letting a leg dangle outside the crenel, he leaned his head back against the stone. A few good puffs and his muscles became liquid. He looked up at the sky and closed his eyes. Soon enough, all feeling dulled, all thought slowed.

His eyes opened to what he hoped would be a different understanding. But it was all still the same.

“It’d be nice to see some fucking stars,” he sighed.


	5. Dockside Workers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During his time as a Returner, Locke often worked in Nikeah. So did prostitutes.

As a Returner, Locke passed through Nikeah frequently. It was an active port, and people from all over the world traveled through it. When Locke had trouble finding information, he almost always came across a clue whilst listening to conversations by the docks.

Another thing one could frequently find by the docks was prostitutes. After months on the sea, sailors often sought the companionship of women. The stereotype about prostitutes being good listeners was true. The sailors talked to them and they held a number of secrets. Locke developed good relationships with many of them, buying them food or drinks or other trifles to get them to talk.

One girl, however, was as interested in Locke as he was in her. She was a little older than most of the other girls, which made her much wiser. Locke always came to her first when he needed info. She talked him into taking her to dinner.

“You know ever’thing about me, but I don’t know much at all about you,” she said.

Blushing a little, Locke looked to the side. “S’not much to know. I run errands for a pretty influential organization.”

Grinning, the woman pressed, “And you’re a pretty damn good pickpocket.” When Locke panicked, she laughed. “Don’t worry about it! I only know cuz I watch you when I ain’t workin.’”

“You’re that interested in me, huh?”

“Lot of people come and go around here… Familiar faces stick in mind a lot more quickly.”

Locke began to meet with her every time he stopped by Nikeah. They bonded over their similarities. If prostitution was the world’s oldest trade, theft probably came close behind it, and both were just as hated.

“You’re one of the few men I see come through here that don’t take advantage of the girls,” she remarked once.

Clearing his throat, Locke took a long drink. “I’m too busy for that kind of thing.”

“You do a lot of standing around.”

“Looking for info.”

“Are you a virgin?”

Coughing, Locke shook his head emphatically. “No! …not really.” He buried his face in his cup. “…depends on the definition.”

She made the motion for “intercourse” with her fingers and Locke blew a bubble in his drink. She laughed until she cried. “Cute boy like you… never made it with a girl? I can’t believe it.”

“Look! I said I was busy…” He decided that he might as well be honest. “The girl I loved died when I was fifteen. I… haven’t really… loved anyone since then.”

“Hell, you don’t have to love someone to have sex with them. In fact, sometimes it’s better when you don’t.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’ll give you a freebie. Then you’ll understand.”

Locke was horrified, and refused immediately. But when he was staring at the ceiling of his tent that evening, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Normal men lost their virginity in their teens… Here he was almost twenty and he had barely touched another woman. The war against the Empire had taken priority over all else, even over Rachel… Her loss was no longer as keen in his mind, and he had begun to wonder if he’d ever be able to revive her. Would she begrudge him the comfort of someone else’s arms? She was so young. Would she even understand it?

It was at that moment that he began to realize he was moving beyond her. His life was going on and he was becoming a different person she wouldn’t be able to relate to anymore.

The next day, he returned to Nikeah and found his friend.

“Okay. You win. Let’s go get a room.”

She took her time with him. Undressing, she told him to touch anything he wished with fingers and lips. And as he explored her skin, she undressed him. And the moment her lips wrapped around his member, he understood. Just as she said he would.

They continued to meet when he came to Nikeah. He continued to buy her dinners and she continued to give him freebies. She taught him all there was to know about pleasing a woman, though he wasn’t sure he’d be using the knowledge anytime soon.

Then the Returners learned of Terra, and things got complicated. He wasn’t able to stop by anymore. When the world ended and he was finally able to return, she was nowhere to be found. The girls remaining said that they hadn’t seen her.

He hoped that perhaps she was still around somewhere, but knew in his heart that he had failed to protect another woman who was dear to him. And nobody would know how dear she was, or mourn alongside him.


	6. The Necklace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel was always a schemer. One of her schemes is to help Locke become a contributing member of society.

Rachel’s father disliked several things about Locke. First and foremost was the fact that his daughter was merely a few years away from marriageable age, and she insisted on spending all of her free time with a street rat. Unfortunately, Rachel was clever and a schemer, and always found a way to skirt the rules he set up for her.

“But father, you always say to give to the poor!”

“But father, he was visiting the Widow McNamara. I just happened to be visiting at the same time.”

“But father, it’s not his fault that he’s poor and homeless!”

The last one angered him the most. “It’s certainly not my fault either, Rachel. What do you propose I do about it?!”

His question was rhetorical, but Rachel was a schemer. Eyes brightening, she cried, “Get him a job, father! Nobody will hire a fourteen-year-old boy without a recommendation. You know lots of people around town.”

Sighing heavily, he finally relented. The shopkeep down the lane owed him a favor, and needed an errand boy. At least, judging from the fact that his damn shop was always closed because he was out running errands. “Fine… I’ll see what I can do.” Once the kid screwed up this endeavor, maybe Rachel would realize he was trash and move on.

To everyone’s surprise (but Rachel’s), Locke excelled at the job. When outfitted in decent attire and given a clear goal to pursue, the boy became a hard worker with a keen focus. He was also personable, and the other townspeople began to warm up to him. Soon they began to forget about his past transgressions, thinking that he had finally reformed and would be steered in the right direction.

The first payday Locke recieved, he jogged down to the corner store and spent a half hour staring at different pieces of jewelry. After some internal debate, he picked up a necklace. The chain was gold-tone, holding a round piece of tin with a girl’s portrait stamped into it, similar to a cameo. This too was gold-tone. Locke proudly purchased it (Five gil, kinda steep) and had it wrapped, running it straight down to Rachel.

“Locke!” she lectured, “This money is so you can survive on your own, not so you can buy me trinkets!”

He held the box out to her, insistent. “I’m gonna become a businessman for you, Rachel. I’ll be able to take care of you, just like your dad wants. This is my promise to you.”

Eventually he saved up enough to fetch himself a room in Widow McNamara’s attic. It was a start. Then he bought a ring. He took her out to the mountains to propose to her.

That didn’t end well.

When Locke returned to Kohlingen and found nothing but devastation, one of the first people he ran into was the record keeper.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cole. I’ve been looking for you.”

Locke didn’t give a shit. “Rachel!” he asked, in a panic. “Have you seen her?”

“Well… no,” the record keeper replied, fingers threading and unthreading as he looked nervously at the boy. He didn’t want to be the one who broke the news, but he had a job to do. “The Widow McNamara did. Rachel communicated her last wishes to the widow. She was the last in her family to pass.” He handed Locke a piece of paper; it was the deed to Rachel’s property. “Always a schemer, that Rachel! Worked out for you, didn’t it?”

That was how he discovered Rachel was dead. He wandered the town like a ghost, ignoring every word spoken to him. Naturally, he gravitated to the Old Man’s home… Someone who could sympathize with him, would listen to him.

“Locke, my boy! I have a wonderful surprise for you~!” he cried, embracing Locke the moment he entered.

The Old Man led him to the basement and showed him the body, surrounded by fragrant herbs. He told Locke it was Rachel; Locke didn’t believe it.

She was a wax doll with hair of straw, wearing that stupid dress that she hated. Her father always tried to make her wear it, saying that a woman should be beautiful, quiet and modest.

Locke touched her cheek. Her skin was cold, face serene. But deep lines were drawn around her eyes. What cares etched themselves there in the moments before she died?

Falling to his knees, Locke sobbed. All of his woes left his body then, years of disappointment and shame and fear and anger and now… regret. He shed it all until the regret and the anger were all that remained.

Rising, eyes clear, thoughts sharpened to a point, he looked again at the woman he loved.

Over the passing days, he returned again and again, looking at her until he became accustomed to this new thing that had taken the place of the woman he loved.

The necklace was still strung around her neck. Even after she forgot about him, she kept it there. She hadn’t forgotten about him entirely, had she? And he still abandoned her.

“I’ll never forget about you again, Rachel. I’ll never abandon you again.” He removed the necklace, holding it up so that it caught the dim light. The gold tone had worn from the side of the chain, evidence of how many days, weeks, months it had lain against her skin, caressing it with his memory.

After putting it on, Locke felt himself passing away as well. An old life was over, and a new one, with a new purpose, was beginning.


End file.
